Behind the Sorcerer's Cloak (8 page)

Mona's fingers closed desperately over the necklace. She bunched the beads up into her palms and clutched them against her chest. “Bury not the beads with Breesha. They carry too much magic. The necklace should pass to me. I carry the spell bundle and have the healing skills. I am the next sorceress. Breesha chose me.” Her voice rose to a shriek.

The man's eyes flashed, and the woman cowered. She froze as he stepped forward, pried apart her fingers and lifted the necklace over her head.

Mona quivered, though whether with rage or fright Holly couldn't tell.

The man returned to the body. He knelt, gently lifted Breesha's head and slipped the necklace around her neck.

“Thou dost right, Sigurd. The necklace came with Breesha. It never left her neck in life. She must keep it in death,” said a voice from the crowd.

“Thou dost not understand,” cried Mona. She ran forward and grabbed Sigurd's arm. “Stay thy hand.” She glared around at the group. “The necklace has a magic more powerful than anything we own. Think before thou forfeit it so easily. 'Twas Breesha's magic that saved us from deadly illness and starvation.”

“Breesha's magic was her own. Some she chose to share with you, Mona. She gave you her spell bundle, and you learned many of her skills. Be content and do not desecrate her memory,” said the red-haired man harshly. “The necklace came from the mist with Breesha. Breesha requested it accompany her return.” He pushed Mona away.

She stumbled, lost her balance and sprawled across the body. Her hand caught in the loop of the necklace.

The necklace snapped.

Beads scattered.

Everyone gasped. A terrible silence fell.

Mona raised herself up on her arms and looked down in horror at Breesha's body.

Hands grabbed her, pulling back on her shoulders, dragging her from the grave.

Mona shook herself free, adjusted her cloak and stared defiantly at the mourners. “That was not my doing.”

All dropped their eyes.

“Thou wilt regret this,” she spat and ran swiftly down the narrow track, between the rocks and heather, her cloak ends flapping like black wings.

For a moment, no one moved.

“The beads must be replaced,” said a soft voice. A young girl knelt reverently by Breesha's body. She began picking up the scattered gems. “Help me remember the order and place them right.”

The women moved forward, and one by one the beads were gathered and placed together, silver against malachite, red glass again against turquoise, in the order all remembered.

The young girl wedged them, so each bead touched its neighbor, propped with delicate folds of the cloak. Finally she laid the large disk of amber over Breesha's heart.

“It is done,” said the girl.

Sigurd shook out a square of fine white linen and covered Breesha's face.

He made a gesture of finality and stood back.

Several men lifted three flat slabs of sandstone and sealed the tomb.

Sigurd held up a small plank of wood. “I am charged to fill Breesha's last request. The secret name of a sorceress holds great magic. To know it brings power. None of us knew Breesha's secret name. Before she passed, the Mists of Time parted and showed Breesha a vision, a child of the future in need of her secret name.” Sigurd held up a board covered with scratched lines.

“Breesha recorded her name of power so the future child can read it. Behold it, concealed within the magic runes.” He laid the board on top of the stone slabs.

The mourners looked at it uncomprehendingly.

Sigurd pick up a white quartz rock. “Let us complete Breesha's cairn.” He placed his rock on top of the board.

The people gathered loose boulders of the gleaming quartz scattered around the islet. The men chose large ones and the women and children picked the smaller ones. They were mounded around and on top of Breesha's grave, covering the slabs, the board and the sides of the tomb in a glowing white pile. The people toiled in silence.

By now the light was fading and the tide rising. With it came threads of sea mist that drifted between the mourners.

Sigurd signaled everyone to stop. “It is done. We must take our leave.” He placed a hand on one of the rocks. “Everything you asked is done, Breesha. I call upon the raven to guide you and the Black Dog to protect you as you travel through the Mists of Time.”

AARCK,
called the raven.

A distant howl echoed. The mist stirred.

Holly and all the mourners shivered. The men drew their sheepskins more tightly around their shoulders, and the women held their children close.

Each mourner stepped forward, touched the white cairn and left without looking back. They ran across the remains of the sandbank and disappeared into the gathering gloom.

Sigurd lingered. He bent and whispered to the cairn in a strange tongue, laid a hand on the stones and strode away.

Holly was alone. She stepped forward and placed her own hand on one of the white rocks. Was this a dream? Would she feel it?

The quartz was hard and cold.

Holly shivered. “Breesha, are you the Lady?” she whispered. “Is that why I am at your funeral? Am I the child from the future? Am I supposed to understand the scratches on the wood?” She shrugged, “I don't.”

No voice spoke to her. No vision came. She had no clue as to what she should do next.

Holly felt helpless and alone. She was cold and stiff from standing still. The mist closing in was creepy. She peered down the rapidly disappearing track, wondering if she should follow everyone.

“I can't stay here,” she mused out loud. “The tide will cut me off.” She stepped onto the track.

Her toe kicked a small stone. It rolled before her: black, shiny and perfectly round.

Holly picked it up. It was a bead, a polished jet bead.

Holly swung back and looked with dawning horror at the rocky cairn that rose over the grave. “They missed a bead!” she cried. She ran to the cairn and began to tear the rock pile apart. “Breesha, one of your magic beads was forgotten.” Holly uncovered the edge of one sandstone slab. She pushed against it. It was immovable. “Come on, you pig,” she grunted as she thrust using all her weight. “I just need a crack to drop the bead in. Come ON. Move, you pig! Move, move, MOVE!”

It was no good. The slab was too heavy.

“What should I do?” Holly held her clasped hand up to the sky. “Breesha, tell me what to do?”

Tatters of mist blew around her.

“I can't take the bead back with me,” Holly yelled. “Been there, done that. I took the Glastonbury cup in the last adventure, and it caused me all kinds of problems.”

The wind blew harder. Ice-cold rain began to fall.

Holly turned to the grave again. She pounded on the slab. “Breesha, listen to me,” she shouted. “I've found your bead, so I'll put it as close to you as I can.” Holly knelt beside the grave and scrabbled with her fingers and a sharp rock. She scraped down into the hard ground beside two upright slabs that lined the grave. She found a crack, a joint, and followed it down into the earth, scraping away what dirt she could, looking for a small gap that would go through to the tomb. It was no use, the rock liners butted too closely together.

Distressed, Holly stamped back the dirt, then replaced the stones she had removed from the cairn.

“Okay…I get it, Breesha…I have to take the bead.” Holly reluctantly stuffed it deep in the pocket of her jeans.

She was cold and wet and exhausted. Her fingers were numb, and blood oozed from several scratches.

Holly sucked her knuckles and blew into cupped hands to warm them. She hunkered down for shelter between two large clumps of heather. To her surprise, the heather was thick enough to offer real protection. It deflected both wind and rain. The closer she huddled to the ground, the more shelter she gained. She stretched out on her stomach and lay down among the roots, her head cushioned on her arms, listening to the rustling of wind and the patter of rain.

A stone clinked.

Holly's heart leaped. She peered up through the vegetation.

A black figure loomed beside the cairn.

It was Mona.

Holly flattened herself into the ground, holding her breath, afraid that this woman with a knowledge of magic would see her.

But Mona saw nothing but the cairn. She rolled rock after rock to the ground. With a cry of triumph, she pulled out the oak board. “SO…the whispers I overheard were true,” she hissed. She held the board up to the fading light and traced each line with her fingers. She growled with frustration. “What magic is this? These scratches are symbols I know not!” Mona stared at the board again. “I swear I will learn thy name of power, Breesha, or pass the board to another who can.”

A dog howled.

Mona flung the rocks back, tucked the board under her cloak and fled silently into the mist.

Holly heard her splashing through the incoming tide.

AARCK, AARCK, AARCK
, called a raven.

Holly stiffly rose from her hollow in the heather. She tried to see through the mist. “Raven, are you trying to tell me something?” she asked.

She heard only the creaking of wings as the bird flew away.

Now Holly was really alone. She was scared.

The mist swept around and enclosed her in a great gray blanket. She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing…

“Holly! Holly…where are you?” Chantel's voice came from the other side of the rose bush. “There you are.” She appeared in front of Holly, gasping for breath. “We couldn't find you,” she said. “Mr. Smythe's hired a floatplane, so we have to drive to the river at Bristol. Come and load your stuff.” She stopped and glanced down at the water glass and tea light. “Oh…you've done some magic?”

Holly stretched her stiff limbs and gave an embarrassed grin. Her heart was thumping; she was cold and confused. “Sort of…The Lady still hasn't talked to me, so I was trying to contact her…,” she trailed off.

“Did it work? Have you met her?”

Holly gathered together the glass, the tea light and matches and clambered to her feet. She rubbed her head. “I'm not sure. It was strange. Let's find Owen and I'll fill you both in.”

Mr. Smythe's Land Rover was quickly loaded, and they were off, swiftly moving down the motorway toward Bristol and the Avon River estuary. The three children huddled in the backseat, heads together. Myrddin sat stiffly in the front passenger seat, bracing himself with one hand on the dashboard. He hated all forms of human-designed transportation.

“I tried some magic,” hissed Owen, one eye on Mr. Smythe in case he overheard. “I tried to talk to Ava, and I went into a kind of trance. Nothing really happened. It was just weird. Everything whirled around me, and I was terrified. It was as though I was in whirlpool or the middle of a hurricane. Then I saw a white feather floating toward me. I thought it was real and from Ava. I tried to grab it. Then I was back in the bedroom and I'd grabbed my toothbrush off the dresser.”